The Hate Game
by atalanta's apples
Summary: [One Shot][revised]It started out as a game, just a game, but it escalated into a battle of wit and pride. Harry reigned as king of the game as Draco tried to keep his temper. Then, unexpectedly, elysium turned to nightmare. slash.


_Disclaimer:_ I don't own.

**:The Hate Game:**

It started as a game, just a simple game. It was something to pass the time with, played before class or maybe during lunch. Then people would join in or maybe they'd hear about it from their classmates. Soon, every time the game started, there would be a good-sized crowd. The game grew in popularity so quickly and so massively that soon every Friday, when the last class bell rang, the majority of fifth, sixth, and seventh-years would gather in the great courtyard of Hogwarts to play the game.

It soon escalated into more than a game; it was a battle of wit and pride. It was simple, really. Two people faced each other and the object of the game was merely to get the other person to give up, to not say those simple words, "of course." Insults would be thrown, the other person always struggling as the insults grew sharper, and finally, they would stop the game and say, "no," greeted by jeers and cheers from their peers.

Strangely enough, none of the faculty seemed to stop the game; if anything, they would _encourage_ it. There was something strange about it but even McGonagall and Snape would egg their respective students on; the titanic grudge match between Gryffindor and Slytherin had come back to life after lying dormant for a couple of years. No one ever questioned the professors' strange compliance to the game.

With the steady rivalry between Slytherin and Gryffindor came only the inevitable: Harry and Draco battling each week.

"You sleep with your cousin Dudley in the summer, don't you?" Draco spat. Harry would only have a slightly amused look in his eyes.

"Of course." The crowd cheered and waited expectantly for the return insult.

"You dye your hair that color, don't you?" Then the students collectively turned their heads to watch the flaxen-haired Slytherin. Draco breathed in deeply.

"Of course." There would be shouts of encouragement from the crowd and only ones with the shrewdest ears would catch insults that had already been used. The player who'd reuse an insult would be disqualified. However, not many dared to tell Draco or Harry that they were disqualified.

"You take steroids for Quidditch, don't you?" Harry smiled again, that infuriating, calm smile.

"Of course. Your mother married your father for his money, didn't she?" Draco's face turned livid.

"Harry!" he yelped. "When will you lay off of my mom? That should be in the rules you know. Only personal insults!"

Hermione sniffed and said, "It's within the rules, Malfoy. You should learn to expect these comments." But all students would walk away from the game, major limbs intact. The only thing hurt would be one's pride but even that wasn't serious. It was a child's game. It was teasing and teasing was absolutely acceptable.

Harry reigned as the king of the game. He only seemed to be biding his time as Draco became more and more angry then would casually slip in a comment that would always put the blonde Slytherin into a blind fury and lose the game. Even so, something like hatred started to dissolve between the two boys. Draco started to admire Harry more, respect him for those childish insults. But when it came to Harry, it wasn't even childish. It became pure wit and cunning and Harry perceptively knew exactly_ what _to say to put Draco over the edge.

He could never do the same with Harry. Harry would always casually brush aside any and every insult Draco made with his easy, strange smile that Draco would find slightly creepy but perhaps even attractive. Slytherins prided themselves on their scathing insults and infuriating, superior smirks but here was a Gryffindor who could pull it off better than any snake. Draco, after each game, would privately smile to himself. It amused him, awed him that a self-righteous Gryffindor could pull off a cool demeanor and sharp tongue better than all the Slytherins.

Some days, Harry or Draco would bow out for the day and other people would clamor at the chance to be in the center of the crowd. They were mainly unremarkable, perhaps only noteworthy in how fast the game would be over.

"You hate me, don't you?" Ginny asked, with a curving smile, to a flustering Neville. And just like that, the game ended with only one question asked. The crowd would boo and beg for Harry and Draco but they were adamant on some days. On other days, it was a wonder that the courtyard didn't catch on fire with their insults.

"You're an ass," Draco said, to Harry, after the crowd had dispersed.

"I only aim to please," Harry answered. Harry liked to see Draco embarrassed; it didn't happen very often. He was impressed at how easily Draco recovered. It takes a big person to move pass those insults made only fifteen minutes before. After awhile, to Harry and Draco, it only became a role for them to assume. It was something to entertain their peers with. To them, nothing that was said actually _meant_ anything, at least after the game was over. There were still Draco's huffs and puffs of fury that drove him to lose to Harry.

They all assumed that the game would be abandoned for good after the Deatheaters came. Or, more specifically, the game wasn't given a second thought. When they came to Hogwarts, a fight wasn't put up. More than once, students wondered how this could have happened when they had Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore on their side. Questions were asked though none were answered.

They went to work quickly and efficiently, like an exterminator determined to quickly kill every pest in the house. Mudbloods and half-bloods were killed and there were so many dead that they took out the dead in cartloads. Some were spared, those that Voldemort had a specific need for. He kept Hermione, only for her connection to Harry. Draco blanched to imagine what Voldemort would plan to do. It would only end in pain for the two Gryffindors.

Draco, himself, was never touched. His father stood proudly on the right hand of Voldemort, ever since Peter Pettigrew had hung himself, so Draco, too, was saved. He hated it. Draco knew he would much rather be taken out in a cart like his peers, his friends, than walk down the lonely, cold corridors of Hogwarts alone, hearing shrieks and screams echoing from a distance.

The Hogwarts castle was completely overrun with Dementors and Deatheaters. The owls of Hogwarts had been set on fire and no one knew _what_ had happened to the faculty. The only professor Draco saw was Snape, walking around, not unlike what Draco did, a vein pulsing dangerously in his temple.

Snape died only a month after the castle had been taken over. Draco lasted longer. Snape had no drive to live anymore, but Draco, Draco had a reason, he had drive. Draco didn't wander the halls aimlessly; he was looking for Harry Potter. Voldemort wouldn't have killed him yet; there were still parts of the prophecy that were muddled and unknown. There was confusion on how _exactly_ to kill this Boy-Who-Lived or if he even _should_ be killed. More than once, Draco had heard Voldemort say, "Would it not be a sweeter victory to see my victim tortured than put to a merciful death?" Draco never answered.

But it did give him a reason to wake up each gray morning. Sometimes he would go for entire weeks without seeing another soul. Other days, he'd see people and realize things, and it would make him wish that he truly was alone in the castle, like the day, he had happened to stumble upon Neville. Draco had been shocked, at first anyway, that Neville hadn't be killed right away. He soon learned, though, that Neville was kept as entertainment to the Deatheaters, as he adorned a jester's hat each dinner and danced.

"Longbottom!" Draco could have kissed the other boy; he was just happy to see a familiar face instead of dark holes and robes. Neville had shrunken, barely half the weight he used to be.

"Who are you," he cried shrilly. "Get away from me!" Draco had put out a hand to comfortingly pat the other boy's shoulder but now he let it drop. His cold, blue hand hung limply at his side. Draco watched in shocked silence as Neville giggled uncontrollably.

"I'm, I'm sorry. I mistook you for someone else," Draco lied, and backed away. Neville had lost his mind, or so everyone chose to believe. Draco knew better; he knew that Neville had performed a curse on himself; it was easier to live with a blanket of insanity covering your eyes than to open them and see the bleak castle walls for what they really were. Everyone was crazed, at least a little bit. The prisoners were starved for attention and food. It pained Draco to see little Ginny Weasley making horrible propositions to him for a crust of bread, or a mouthful of water.

Draco had none to offer the little redhead; he had none to offer any of the prisoners. Voldemort was strict on beauty and insisted on the wan, boneless grace of ghosts. Draco was hardly given as much food as the prisoners. Each time he did have a shallow bowl of gruel in his hands, he would set off to find Ginny, or anyone. Each time, though, the castle would forbid him and it would make him elude the prisoners. The very foundation of Hogwarts had been forced to obey Voldemort. Because of this, Draco wondered if he would ever really find Harry.

Draco passed by Deatheaters pushing yet another cart. Draco refused to look, afraid he might see a shock of red hair, or maybe a head of bushy brown hair, or, even worse, the limp, dead body of Harry Potter resting on the top of the pile. Draco knew as well as the next person that Harry Potter may be the only chance to escape this prison and he would be in no condition to fight the Dark Lord with his friends lying in a ditch somewhere, dead.

It was another day of prowling the corridors of Hogwarts. Draco swore he had been through this hallway before (didn't he recognize that painting?) and stopped. He turned to the wall and drew his hand back. He smashed it against the wall, hoping that the castle would tumble around him and crush his bones into dust. How would he ever find Harry?

It was a last resort, going to Voldemort. It had been nearly six months with no sign of where Harry was kept.

"And why would Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, want to see his sniveling, Slytherin enemy?" It would be no use to lie to the face of Voldemort; he would see right through them.

"Just once," he pleaded. "I just want to see him once."

"Who's to say he's still alive?" Voldemort sent him away after that and for that, Draco was not given his customary watery soup, served in a cold tin bowl. It was an overcast day when Draco decided to give up, no, not give up, _escape_. How much longer could someone actually live in these conditions? Why did Voldemort and his followers insist on keeping everyone in the castle? Draco couldn't do anything to help so he might as well escape by the only he knew how.

Draco had created a noose and tied one end to his door and slipped the other around his neck. He leaned forward, letting the weight of his body tighten the noose around his neck. He would lose consciousness and then die from the lack of blood flow to the head. Draco was glad to see the world go. He was on the edge of blacking out when he heard someone murmur a spell and the rope was cut. He fell to his hands and knees, gasping.

"Get up, boy." It was his father. If he cared at all that he had just found his son trying to kill himself, he gave no indication of it. "Voldemort wants to see you in the courtyard." It would only be folly not to obey and Draco followed his father down to the courtyard. Once he arrived, Lucius left leaving only Draco and Voldemort in the courtyard, or so Draco first thought. Then his eyes settled on Harry, who was seemed to be crumbling before his eyes. Draco couldn't help the sharp intake of breath as he saw the other boy for the first time in so many months. Harry was nothing but brittle bones and dust as he sat on the courtyard floor.

"Stand up," Voldemort ordered. "Is this the renowned Harry Potter? Reduced to nothing but a pile of useless bones? _Stand up._" Harry did, and by the clanking noise, Draco realized that shackles had been put on his hands and feet. Voldemort chuckled.

"You said you wanted to see the boy, now here he is."

"What is it that you want?" Draco said, warily.

"There is a game that I hear of that was quite popular," he started. Draco knew what was coming.

"Play this hate game with Harry Potter. It will amuse me and we will see now who the real winner will be." Draco looked at Voldemort with uncomprehending eyes. Brought here to entertain him, the absurdity and cruelty of it all drove Draco to stand, defiant.

"No use in doing that, Draco," Voldemort breathed. "I'll just kill the boy right now if you want to play that way." Draco hastily hurried to stand before Harry. He tried to search the other boy's blank eyes, hoping to find _something_ in there, fury, hope, loss. There was nothing but emptiness in the dark eyes.

"Something smells, haven't been taking showers regularly, have you?" Draco marveled at how easily the words came. His brain was letting him believe that they were surrounded by their friends that were cheering them on. It was mercifully letting him forget the last year. There it was, something that made Draco feel less wretched and cold and lonely. It was a ghost of a smile that crossed Harry's cracked, bloodstained lips.

"Of course." The smile disappeared. "You know Hermione died last week, didn't you?" Draco's voice caught in his throat but he forced himself to swallow and say, "Of course." He could almost feel Voldemort's impatience but said, "You know I didn't mean for any of this to happen, don't you?"

"Of course. You know he'll kill me soon, don't you?"

"Of course." Draco hesitated. "You know that I'm sorry, don't you?"

"Of course. You know I don't blame you, don't you?"

"Stop this folly this instant," Voldemort demanded, but his voice seemed to be coming from a distance, a pesky annoyance that could stand to be ignored. Somewhere in his mind, though, Draco knew they would both pay dearly for this but he couldn't stop, not without Harry knowing.

"Of course." Draco's voice cracked. "You know I love you, don't you?"

"Malfoy!" Voldemort bellowed. He would die, right there, Draco knew it. Right there but not yet, not before Harry answered.

"Of course. You know I do too, don't you?" There were tears; Harry Potter was _crying_. That amazed Draco.

"Of course." That's when Voldemort, furious, screamed out the curse. Harry was at Draco's side before the curse hit him.

"You can't die on me, not now," Harry whispered, "not yet, you know that, don't you?" He cradled Draco's head in his lap. Draco could barely find the energy to shrug.

"Sorry," he said.

"I guess you lost again,"Harry said. He tried to smile, the most wretched smile, yet the edges of his mouth turned down miserably, in defeat. But Draco smiled, genuinely, looking up at Harry. There, in his eyes was something. Those dark green eyes held something. It was love. Even as the feeling rapidly disappeared from his body and his eyes started to close, Draco wondered if maybe this time he won.

**:End:**


End file.
